


Happy Endings

by the_ragnarok



Series: Happy Endings [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Backstory, M/M, Massage, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-15
Updated: 2011-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:32:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is a full-service masseuse. Eames is his favorite customer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Endings

**Author's Note:**

> Posted in response to [this kinkmeme prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/12989.html?thread=28702397#t28702397). This fic ate my life. I'm still writing little snippets in the general universe. It's the longest work I've completed, to date.  
> All my love to Anatsuno, who beta'd this and is a generally awesome person.

It's a standard speech, but Arthur tries not to sound as if he's giving it by rote. "Topless for seventy," although no one takes that option, Arthur doesn't know why they're making him leave it in, "Speedos for ninety, hundred and twenty for nude."

The client eyes Arthur kind of dispassionately. "Speedos," he says.

His name is Nash, and he's from California. Arthur knows the former because he needs to write up the client's names, the latter from Nash's license plate. They get a lot of business coming in from there, for some reason.

Arthur strips to his underwear and Nash lies down, looking up at the ceiling.

"Scented or regular oil?" They told Arthur offering a choice was a waste of money, but fuck them. He's got professional pride.

Nash, predictably, chooses the regular kind. Arthur wants to sigh, a little, at how nobody understands his artistry, but he's not that much of a fucking hipster.

As he pushes his fingers into the client's back, Arthur's mind goes clear. The image of flesh and skin before him transforms, in his mind, into the clean lines and diagrams he's learned this from: tendons and bones and muscles, and their delicate interplay.

The human body fascinates Arthur, and always has. Natural engineering at its best.

Nash turns over. Then, of course, there's the undignified part.

"If there's any part of your body that you'd like me to massage," Arthur says, a little more robotic than is probably best, and Nash cuts him short by grabbing his hand and placing it firmly on Nash's cock.

Arthur usually spends this part mentally compiling his to-do list for school. He's done his calculus homework, he thinks, twisting his hand in a way that makes Nash's hips jerk up, there's the physics assignment that's due Monday, he ought to get working on that.

Nash comes before Arthur's done with that, which Arthur appreciates, since he would have had to start thinking about what to make for dinner next, and he doesn't like to get food mixed up with work.

He leaves the room to let Nash get dressed, washes his hands and writes down the details. _Fair tipper, perfectly polite._

There's some cleaning up to do, and then Ariadne shouts, "Walk-in for you, Arthur!"

Arthur sighs. He can't be certain who this is, but he does have his suspicions.

These are proven correct when he sees Eames sitting on the table, already naked and smiling cheekily. "Full service?" he asks, like he always does.

"In your dreams, Mr. Eames." It doesn't do to be rude to clients, but this is Eames, who all but purrs with delight whenever Arthur deviates from his usual script. "Would you like your massage to end with a release?"

"Arthur," Eames says, reproachful. "I think you should know me by now."

Arthur ignores this in favor of reciting the options, again. He gets a stubborn thrill out of making Eames go through the whole procedure every time, even though his expression is pained by the time Arthur is done with his spiel.

"Why would anyone who could have you naked choose otherwise?" Eames says as he lies on the massage table. "Boggles the mind, it does."

"Scented oil or regular," Arthur says, because, all right, he likes being a bit bloody-minded at times.

"Sandalwood," Eames says; for this reason and this reason alone, Arthur likes him.

He rewards Eames for it with a warm "Good choice," and ignores Eames' leer.

It's a good thing, now, that he doesn't really see his client's bodies as anything but a problem to solve, because Eames is solid muscle and soft skin. Eames is, actually, precisely what Arthur's type of men would be if Arthur did men outside of work, and admitting that would... cause difficulties.

But maybe it's not that bad if, when taking care of Eames at the end, he allows himself to get absorbed in it. To listen to the sounds Eames makes, to maybe crack a small smile when Eames' thighs buck up as he speeds his hand, to tell Eames, "You like this, don't you?" even though he hates talking dirty to the clients.

Eames comes the moment Arthur opens his mouth. He always does.

Because Arthur has work etiquette, he doesn't let go of Eames' cock until the last spurt has been milked out. He gets a warm, wet towel to clean Eames up and Eames arches up into his hand, purring in contentment.

"You're like a cat," Arthur says under his breath.

Perhaps he lets his guard down around Eames rather more than he should. So far, Eames has never taken advantage of that, except to smile warmly at Arthur and call him _Darling_ at inconvenient moments.

"If I were, would you take me in?" he asks as he gets up. Arthur generally leaves his clients alone to get dressed, but Eames seems to appreciate the company.

"I don't collect strays," Arthur says in his best aloof voice. "Go and pay your bill, Mr. Eames."

"Yes, darling," Eames says meekly, and slips out.

Arthur would shake his head in exasperation, but he's above such things. So it's just as well that Ariadne yells, "Arthur! Phone call!"

~~

Arthur is not happy when he puts down the phone. Then again, if anybody in living memory has ever been happy after a call from the insurance company, it's news to Arthur.

"What did they want?" Ariadne asks.

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. "My mom's hospital bills."

Ariadne winces in sympathy.

"Apparently, the breast cancer was a preexisting condition." Arthur bares his teeth in an expression that can't be called a smile.

"Shit," Ariadne says, succinctly. "What are you going to do?"

"Work more, I guess." Arthur shrugs. "What else can I do?" Except that won't happen and he knows it. There are only so many clients asking for a male masseuse.

"Well you could," Ariadne says, then shuts her mouth with a click.

But Arthur knows what she meant to say. "I'm not offering full service," he says, with a hint of danger in his voice.

Except that was a fucking mistake, because Ariadne turns on him full-force, and says, "Oh? Because there's something wrong with people who do full service?"

"I didn't say that," Arthur says, and Ariadne cuts him off.

"No, you can't do that. Not precious, righteous _Arthur_. You're too pure for this shit, aren't you? Better than me because you'll only jerk the customers off, you won't –"

"It's not the same!" Arthur yells.

Ariadne raises one eyebrow and gives Arthur the coldest look he's ever received. "And why the fuck would that be, hmm?"

"Look, you have sex with men on your own time," Arthur says, a little desperately.

"Funny of you to make that assumption." But she looks a little less angry now, a little more curious as she hops to sit on the counter so they're of a height. "Wait, you don't?"

Arthur shrugs. "It's easier with women. They're less likely to punch you if they're disinterested."

Ariadne snorts. "Can't see you being bashed."

Honestly. Because he threw a patron out that _one time_. "Yeah, as long as you don't see me getting arrested for kicking someone's ass." Apparently having martial arts training meant that self-defense could be reclassified as armed assault. Arthur fucking hates the legal system.

At length, he says, "Look, I'll think about it."

"You really should," Ariadne says from where she's working over the till. "Do you have any idea what Eames has been offering for your ass?"

"Don't tell me," Arthur mutters, but he bumps into her, friendly-like, when he goes to accept his next client.

With great care, Arthur reviews his options.

This is, sadly and truly, the best paying job he could find right now. Even if he's only getting paid in tips, it beats bussing tables or cleaning. And if it's not something he could have told his mom about (may she rest in peace), at least it's skilled labor. Arthur's worked hard for that massage therapy license.

Then there's expenses.

He can't cut down his living expenses, no matter how he looks at it. His apartment's a single, but it's also a no-kidding-honest-to-God renovated walk-in closet. Barring actual squatting, there's no way for Arthur to find anything cheaper.

Arthur's not fucking quitting school, because then the best prospects he'd have would involve staying in this job forever, which, no. Just no. Also he can't get a student loan, because he's in enough debt already, thanks to the freakish awfulness of the American health system.

The balance of his expenses account, if managed carefully, will tide him over for a few weeks more before the creditors start closing in. And after that...

Arthur allows himself a measure of optimism. _Maybe I'll get smushed by an asteroid before that happens._

~~

"Full service?" Eames asks, and Arthur bites out, "That'll be an extra hundred."

For a moment Eames is looking at him, confounded, and Arthur feels a rush of panic. _Oh God, what if he never meant it, what if he was only joking, fuck_.

Last week, Arthur tried to pay for the groceries and the store did not accept his card. He went home, feeling numb, staring at the empty kitchen cabinets and thinking _fuck, fuck, fuck_.

So here he is now, fucking _desperate_ , about to be refused by the one person he thought was a sure thing.

Except Eames swallows, and says in a thick voice, "What does that include?"

"Your choice," Arthur says, clipped. "Sucking, fucking, the usual." This isn't professional language. Arthur cannot deal with this and be professional at the same time.

Eames is nodding, slowly at first like he's dazed, then quicker. "Yes. Right. Good. Should I specify –"

"I'll ask when it's relevant," Arthur says, because he doesn't want to spend the entire massage dreading – whatever it is.

As it is, as he rubs his hands down Eames back, he can't stop thinking _don't ask to fuck me, please, God,_ and that's hardly any better.

It's not that Arthur's a fucking virgin. He's just never done anal. Lots of people haven't. People can be married for years and not do anal, that doesn't fucking make then virgins.

It's just that he's tried, with his fingers in the shower, and it _hurt_ and Arthur's slightly terrified – not of the pain, fuck that, but that he'll let something slip. That he'll accidentally say something stupid like _it's my first time_ or _don't hurt me_. Best care scenario, Eames will think Arthur's milking him for extra cash.

Worst case scenario, Eames will get off on it.

So Arthur's mainly relieved once he's done when Eames turns over and, like he can't wait, says, "Let me suck you off."

Slightly baffled, too, but then he knows Ariadne has an whole client base devoted to licking her pussy, so maybe Arthur ought not to be surprised by this.

Right, he can do this, can will his cock to go hard. It's not difficult, it only requires Arthur to let go of his professional discipline and _look_ at Eames, his muscles gleaming, the wet sheen of Eames' lips where he's licked them.

"Yeah," Arthur says, a little nonsensically. He puts a condom on and offers Eames his dick.

Eames takes it in with a moan, takes it in like he's been born to suck cock. Arthur considers telling him this, since Eames likes to hear him talk, but he might find it degrading. Best not to take risks.

"This feels so good," he whispers instead, because it's true. He hadn't foreseen this, how impossible it would be to stay detached with his actual dick inside someone's actual mouth.

He tries desperately to cling to the fact that the purpose here is to get Eames off, not himself. And so when Eames goes off – which he does right after Arthur finishes speaking, goddamned typical – Arthur pulls away.

But then Eames honest-to-God _whimpers_ , saying, "No, let me, please," and Arthur's not sure whether it's professional pride that makes him drive back in or just the urgency of wanting to come.

Eames holds Arthur's hips, and Arthur allows it even though he's not certain it's within protocol. Eames grabs him, in fact, as if he's afraid Arthur will pull away again if he doesn't. He rubs his cheek against Arthur's stomach (Arthur almost jumps at this; _fuck, stubble_ , he didn't anticipate how that would feel). He takes Arthur in, smooth and practiced, and Arthur chokes back a little moan.

Eames does this like he means it, like he's starving for Arthur in his mouth. It's impossible to stay impartial, unmoved, and moreover Arthur doesn't want to. But he does keep still, and quiet, until climax rips a groan out of him, and he can't help but snap his hips just once.

When Arthur backs off, Eames looks _drugged_ , pupils blown wide and his mouth hanging slack and open. He closes it after a moment, opens it again to say something and apparently thinks better of it.

There are fifty dollars in the tipping jar when he leaves. Arthur takes them and thinks, _well, that's next week sorted out_ , because it's better than thinking about how his hands are shaking.

~~

He doesn't offer it every time, nor to every client. Just the regulars, just the ones he knows and trusts not to be assholes. He may or may not omit the _fucking_ option, because the idea makes him nervous, and, fuck that.

It's amazing, what you can get used to. Getting head is obviously not difficult, giving it... is, but for technical reasons more than anything else.

Arthur's lousy at it, which he resents because he's not used to being bad at anything, but his skills are apparently at least functional. At the very least, they get his clients off.

He's still getting used to the semi-permanent ache in his jaw, but it's a small thing. Arthur has studied martial arts for most of his teenage years; he's used to bruises in odd places, unexpected pain that hits only when you move just _so_.

It's fine. Really it is.

Or at least it will be.

~~

The next time Eames comes over, Arthur doesn't even get to the list of options. As soon as the door is closed Eames is saying, hushed, "Fuck me."

"That –" Arthur swallows. "We don't offer that option."

"You offered it just last week," Eames argues.

Arthur rolls his eyes. "And now we don't."

He's prepared to be quick-and-to-the-point about this, _my terms, take them or get the fuck out_ , but Eames is saying, "Please," in a rough, low voice, and Arthur doesn't have it in him to refuse that.

He waits for Eames to get undressed, dips his hands in the warm oil. Eames smells a bit like that, every time. The scent has a tendency to stick, Arthur knows, it's nothing more than that, but it makes him feel quietly happy.

His hands, when they touch Eames' back, are forceful. They have to be. Eames' muscles are all knotted up, hard and nearly unyielding under Arthur's hands.

Eames groans when Arthur's fingers bite deep. "Oh, yes."

Arthur hums a little, trying to remember the theory of this, not to let himself get caught up in the practice.

"You have," Eames says, stifling another groan, "the most wonderful hands."

"I bet you say that to all the girls," Arthur says, drily, and sinks his thumbs into the base of Eames' neck.

Eames makes a muffled noise. "That's trite," he says, reproachful. "I expected better than that from you, Arthur."

"Good thing," Arthur says, gritting his teeth a little with the effort it takes to make Eames' muscles _do what he tells them, damn it_ , "I'm not being paid to talk to you, then."

"Why must you bring that up?" Eames sounds pained, possibly because Arthur is beating his back into submission. Figuratively.

Okay, not so figuratively.

"You're really tense," Arthur says, and hates himself for sounding like the mother of all bad pornography. "More than usual."

"I'm delighted that you pay attention," Eames grunts. He sighs and turns a bit, which forces Arthur to stop for a moment. "If you must know, I had absolutely the worst possible week anyone could have without being shot at."

"Shot at," Arthur repeats, flatly. He nudges Eames back into position, less than subtly so, and resumes kneading. "Is that a normal job hazard in whatever it is you do?"

"Why, Arthur." Eames runs a finger down Arthur's thigh. "Asking about my job, paying attention to my stress – I'd almost think you cared."

"Yeah, I say that to all the other guys, too." He slaps Eames' thigh, not too hard. Almost playful. "Don't feel special or anything."

Eames pouts as he rolls over, but then he smiles so brightly that Arthur nearly blinked. "I do believe," Eames says, "That I'm owed release."

At which point Arthur comes to a realization, and voices it out of plain shock.

"Fuck," he says. "I don't have any lube here."

Eames raises a nonbelieving eyebrow, and points at the pot of warm oil.

"Can't," Arthur says. "That crap eats straight through latex. Oh, fuck, I'm sorry."

"Arthur." Eames is sounding almost strangled. "I'm very sorry, but at this point in time I don't particularly care if you use oil, spit or nothing at all, but if you don't –" Then he blinks, and says in his normal voice, "Although I've just recalled I may have some slick in my pocket."

He does, and Arthur curses himself for being attracted to the kind of man who goes around with lube in his pockets.

It is handy, though, and Arthur can't help but approve of the way Eames tilts his thighs up, pulling Arthur's fingers into him.

"The best hands," Eames says, out of breath already. Arthur tries not to smile.

It turns out that fucking a man up the ass isn't too different from what Arthur's used to. The biggest difference probably has to do more with the fact that Eames is built like a wrestler. He grabs Arthur's shoulder with one hand and Arthur's ass with the other, so hard that Arthur doesn't doubt he'll find marks there tomorrow.

He ought to snap at Eames, to remove those hands quickly and efficiently from his person, but he's looking Eames in the face and he just can't.

Eames looks lost almost, eyes wide, mouth open, red and wet. He's stopped making noises now, as if getting fucked requires his full concentration.

"Is this good?" Arthur hazards after a few minutes of thrusting, his own control starting to wear slightly thin.

Eames comes, then, without being touched. He shuts his eyes tights, makes a short, sharp sound, and grabs Arthur closer, rubbing against his stomach until he's finished.

He doesn't let Arthur go until Arthur thrusts again, gasps, and comes.

There's another fifty bucks in the jar when Arthur comes back in from washing his hands. Arthur glares at it until his next client comes in.

~~

"DreamState massage parlor," Arthur intones into the phone. "May I help you?"

"You just might," says a familiar, accented voice on the other end. Arthur closes his eyes and despairs of his life.

"You," he says, trying not to make it sound like an accusation.

"I am, indeed, myself," Eames agrees from the other end. "And on the other hand, you are Arthur, for which I am exceedingly glad. May I come in and talk to you?"

Eames couldn't make this easy on Arthur by making whatever unspeakable request he had over the phone, where Arthur could – indeed, would have to – hang up on him. No, he _would_ ask to set an appointment where he can speak to Arthur privately, and where nobody will be able to arrest him for obscenity.

Such is Eames. The man ought to be arrested for obscenity just for _existing_.

Unusually, when Eames arrives, he looks unsettled.

"I'm not actually here for a massage," he says as soon as Arthur shuts the door. "Although allow me to reassure you, your hands have not lost any of their considerable allure, and you will be compensated for your time."

"Not a massage," Arthur says, and, well, excuse him for being a bit slow on the uptake, but Arthur has not slept well in the last week and Eames is refusing to play according to the rules. "So what do you want?"

Eames fidgets. Arthur stares at him, at his hands – holy crap, is Eames actually nervous?

"I, er, realize that this is not your regular line of work," Eames says, and fuck, he really is nervous, "but I was wondering if you would accompany me to –" Eames waves a hand. "Call it a business event."

It takes a minute for Arthur to fully process what Eames is saying. "This isn't an escort service."

"Oh, I know, I know," Eames says, hurriedly. "But I was given to understand that you are, at the moment, a bit tight about the financial front. Thought you might not mind a bit of, ah, freelancing."

The look he gives Arthur is so hopeful, Arthur almost has a hard time refusing.

"I don't do that," he says, with a warning note to his tone.

Not that it matters, really. What's the difference between fucking Eames here, on the massage table, and being seen with him by all of Eames' associates?

Well, everything, actually.

But Eames is still trying to be convincing. "I didn't realize you found my company so unpleasant, Arthur. It's just waltzing around for three hours in ridiculous clothes. Surely it wouldn't be such a terrible way to spend an evening."

They can't, Arthur can't circle this anymore. "I'm not a whore," he says, quiet and flat. "And if I am, I don't have a fucking Cinderella fantasy, okay? I don't want you to take me to the ball."

He's prepared to face another round of Eames' heartfelt protestations, but Eames blinks at him instead, looking almost surprised. "I didn't mean that," he says, in a smaller voice than Arthur has ever heard him use. "I just need someone gorgeous and not too dull on my arm, that's all. I'll even pay for your cab home afterwards."

"No sex," Arthur says, for confirmation's sake.

Eames hesitates. "Not included in the contract, no. I might ask to renegotiate, but I promise I won't press."

Arthur leans back against the wall and crosses his arms. "How much?"

 _I haven't actually agreed yet,_ he thinks, but there's no point. There's been a battle of wills, and Arthur has already lost.

Eames spreads his hands. "Name your price, darling."

"Three hundred." It wouldn't look like much to Eames, who regularly pays more for a massage he comes for at least once a week. But this would all go into Arthur's own pocket, and he could use that kind of money.

Eames' eyes light up. "Wonderful." He presses a kiss to Arthur's cheek, so fast Arthur hasn't even seen him coming, and he leaves the room practically skipping.

Arthur is about to be bitter at the loss of his promised _compensation_ , but when he next opens his wallet he sees a fifty dollar note that wasn't there before.

~~

Because Arthur is not, indeed, any kind of Disney heroine, it doesn't occur to him to worry about what to wear to Eames' party. Fortunately enough, Eames comes through and brings something nice.

Something nice is, actually, a less than accurate description. Arthur runs his hands over the shirt, touches the jacket and the pants greedily.

He has to go back to the shirt almost immediately, though. "Silk," he says, and if there's a dreamy note to his voice, he can't be blamed for it.

Arthur's present existence hasn't allowed him much by way of luxuries. Arthur can't afford nice clothes, but it doesn't mean he can't _want_. He's only human, for Christ's sake.

"I did not," Eames says faintly, "expect you to react like this to menswear."

"Then you don't know me very well, do you?" Arthur whisks the clothes off the hanger and shoos Eames away so he can get dressed, utterly ignoring Eames' micro-pout.

"I shall strive to remedy that," Eames says, with as much dignity as someone being forced out the door can muster.

When Arthur comes out, dressed and fiddling with his tie, Eames doesn't say anything at all, just swallows and guides Arthur to the car with a hand on the small of his back.

Arthur may or may not grin to himself, a bit, secretive, when he catches Eames trying not to look at him and failing miserably.

They haven't been at the party for even an hour when Eames makes a muttered excuse and slips away.

Arthur stares in the general direction of Eames' trajectory, mouth a tight straight line. He does not appreciate being left alone to field Mrs. Branson's probing questions. Especially since Mrs. Branson is a slightly-deaf septuagenarian who likes to turn everything she mishears into a double entendre.

"I said," Arthur repeats, slightly louder, "I'll ask Eames to bring you another glass."

Her eyes widen comically. "You'll ask _who_ to sling you on the ass?"

"No, I –" Arthur bites down something terribly impolite, and departs in search of the restroom. Where, obviously, he finds Eames.

Arthur stops cold as soon as he sees him, because Eames' forehead is pressed against the tiles, eyes closed, and he's breathing hard. His hands are clenched into fists, and there's an unmistakable bulge in his pants.

Unaccountably, Arthur is moved to place a hand on the back of Eames' neck. The skin there is far hotter than it should be, as much as it pains Arthur to realize that by now he knows what Eames' normal core temperature feels like.

"You're burning up," Arthur says softly, and Eames' fists turn white where he presses them against the wall.

"Arthur," Eames says, quiet. "Will you renegotiate with me?"

Arthur tilts his head and thinks. "You want me to go home with you," he says, and he can't help a little bitterness. "Should I demand payment by the hour?"

Eames shakes his head, slowly. "The entire night," he rasps. "Anything less..." his voice wanes. He turns to look at Arthur. His gaze sharpens, for the barest moment, then he blinks and he's himself again, the Eames Arthur walked into the hotel with: Cheerful and careless.

"What?" Arthur asks.

"The whole night or nothing," Eames says. "Don't concern yourself about the rest of it. Yes or no, and how much?" He looks at Arthur expectantly.

Arthur doesn't have the barest idea of what to ask for. He doesn't even know when he transitioned from _fuck no, I'm not doing that_ to _what's my price_. He knows he'll say yes. It's down to the haggling, now.

"Two thousand," he says. It's a ridiculous amount, so Eames can now laugh at him and ask for a similarly ridiculously low price, and they'll find themselves some kind of acceptable median to use.

But Eames says, "Done," immediately, because he lives to thwart Arthur's expectations.

Arthur blinks. "Okay." He straightens his tie. It doesn't really need that, it's pure reflex. "Tell me when you'd like to leave."

There's something dark in Eames' eyes, something predator-smooth in the movements of his shoulders. "That, my dear, would be now."

~~

At Eames' hotel room, he pins Arthur to the wall and tries to kiss him. At the last moment, Arthur turns his face away and says, "No."

Something like hurt flashes across Eames' face, but he mutters, "'Course not, sorry," almost sheepish.

Everything else, Arthur allows. He lets Eames peel him out of the expensive suit, lets Eames lay him on the bed, lets Eames plant reverent kisses on Arthur's hipbones and his shoulders. When Eames licks his neck, Arthur draws a sharp breath and does not, does _not_ cry out.

"Let me hear you," Eames says.

Arthur snorts. "I thought you wanted the whole night," he says, daring Eames to deny the hair-trigger effect Arthur's voice has on him.

Eames does not deny. What he does do is leave the bed, rummage through his suitcase, then pull out something with an "Ah-ha!"

Arthur eyes it. "You have lube in your pockets and a cockring in your travel bag," he says. "Remind me again who's supposed to be the sex-worker here?"

"Ah, but that's not the correct question," Eames says. His hands are quick with the cockring, sure as they click through the snaps and straps, and Arthur refuses to be turned on by that. "What you should be asking," he punctuates this with a quick kiss to Arthur's ankle, "is who is the slut. And that, darling, is most certainly me."

"I see," Arthur says, a bit faintly. A kiss to the _ankle_ , honestly, who does that?

Arthur is beginning to harbor a sneaking suspicion that for any given value of 'that', the question 'who does that' can be truthfully answered with 'Eames does'.

"I'm glad you do," Eames says, agreeably, crawling back unto the bed. "And now," he says, the dark gleam returning to his eyes. "Let's talk about what we're about to do, hmm?"

"Fuck," Arthur says. He's not sure if it's a statement, a request, or just a kind of punctuation, but it seems to fit.

"Mmm." Eames squeezes Arthur's ass, and Arthur feels himself reddening, turns his face away even as his body moves into Eames' touch. "Ever been rimmed, love?"

"Not really," Arthur mumbles. Being rimmed or not isn't a big deal, right? Not like the other thing.

"So I think," Eames says, conversationally, "that our first order of business should be to do something about that, yes?"

While Eames' voice is completely normal, his eyes are wide and he's sweating more than the room's mild temperature would warrant. Arthur touches Eames' forehead, not certain what to say. Eventually he settles for, "If you want."

"Oh, I do."

Eames kneels on the bed. He nudges Arthur's legs gently, blinking a little as Arthur splays them wide. "No need to hurt yourself, love."

"No, I'm fine." Arthur's heart is hammering. He's feeling exposed, faced with something unfamiliar and possibly dangerous. But because he's Arthur, his first reaction to danger is to dive at it so he can hit it with the full force of acceleration behind him. "I can open them wider, see?" He demonstrates.

Within the confines of the cockring, Eames' dick leaps. Arthur looks at it with a small measure of satisfaction.

"I," Eames says, then gives it up and bends to lap at Arthur.

Arthur closes his eyes.

At first, it just feels _odd_ , pressure in unaccustomed places, a sensation he's not sure how to interpret except as _intense_. Eames flicks a finger at Arthur's hole and he gasps, every muscle in his stomach tightening, so Eames does it again.

Over and over and over, and Arthur whines, "No, don't, too much, I –"

Eames ceases immediately. Arthur blinks, then bends to glare at him. "Why did you stop?"

Eames looks at him and starts laughing. Arthur collapses back down. "Fine, make fun of me," he mutters without any heat. "Asshole."

"Darling," Eames says reprovingly, "You really shouldn't hand me lines like that." He strokes a hand down Arthur's thigh, and more gently says, "Would you like to have a safe word?"

That might not be a bad idea, just in case. "All right," Arthur says. "I say 'safe word', you stop."

Eames gapes at him until Arthur, irritable, says, "What?"

"You're one of those people who use 'Password' as their password, aren't you," Eames says.

Arthur snorts. "Fuck you, I worked in IT for six months. I bet you're one of those people whose password is 12345."

"Amazing," Eames says. "That's the exact code I have on my luggage."

Arthur stares at him for a moment, then bursts into laughter. "You," he manages between wheezes, "did not just quote Space Balls at me."

"Oh?" Eames lies down next to Arthur, comfortable on his side. Arthur figures if Eames can blatantly ignore the massive erections they're both still sporting, so can he. "And why not? It's an excellent movie."

"I mean, Monty Python I could see," Arthur says. "Hot Fuzz, something like that. Mel Brooks just isn't _appropriate_."

"So sorry to have offended your good sense," Eames murmurs, and the look in his eyes is so fond that Arthur has to look away, he _has_ to.

When Eames looks down, it feels like a kindness. More so when he puts his hands on the very tops of Arthur's thighs, bracketing him so that he feels put in place, steadied, grounded.

Eames starts licking at him again, and the sensation shifts somehow. Good, it's definitely good, but also very nearly too much.

After only a little while, Arthur's pretty grateful for the safe word, because it means he doesn't have to worry what comes out of his mouth; grateful for Eames' hands on him, because as long as he doesn't squirm _too_ hard he can let himself move without thinking about it.

He doesn't have to hold back at all. More than anything else, this is what undoes him.

Coming is almost a surprise, a sudden hard clenching of his body around Eames' fluttering tongue, a striving upwards of his spine.

Eames crawls back up, clumsy, like he's drunk. "That was," he says, breathlessly, "God, you're amazing," and Arthur doesn't even have the presence of mind to look away now. Not even when Eames starts licking at Arthur's stomach, lapping up the streaks of his come, making eager noises and pressing kisses to the areas he's cleaned.

At this point, Arthur realizes that Eames is still hard. Eames seems completely willing and capable of ignoring his cock, for all that Arthur thought Eames used it for most major thinking processes.

"You should probably come at some point," Arthur says, feeling too good to actually care about what comes out of his mouth. "That can't be healthy."

"I'm touched that you care," Eames breathes into Arthur's ear. Arthur shudders, just a little, because he came ten minutes ago and he's still a little sensitive. Everywhere.

He's pretty sure Eames is going to fuck him, and it's a testament to how blown his mind is that Arthur can't actually bring himself to be unhappy about that. Except that once he's had that thought, knowing Eames, Arthur realizes it can't possibly be what he means to do next. Eames sheer contrariness won't let him.

True to form, Eames unsnaps the cockring with shaking hands and says, "May I be so bold as to ask for your sweet mouth on me, love?"

"Don't you want to fuck me?" Arthur says, because his brain to mouth barrier still hasn't recovered.

Eames shudders and grabs the base of his cock. "Don't _do_ that to me, Arthur. Not when I can't properly appreciate it." He gulps a breath and says, "And obviously I can't. It must have been years since you've done that – I won't ask," he adds at Arthur's warning look, "but you're tighter than the trousers you wear to work, and I don't think I could last long enough for the actual buggery."

Arthur decides to ignore this slight on his work apparel, and instead opts for honesty. "I give really bad head."

Eames makes a strangled sound. "Firstly, I don't believe that. Secondly, right now it doesn't have to be good, so long as it _happens_."

Arthur huffs a laugh at that, deep in his throat, delighting in the interesting shades of red Eames' face is turning. "Fine," he says, smiling still, and puts his mouth over Eames. He takes it in, slow and wet, before he thinks, before he _realizes_.

Fuck, that's skin he's tasting, not latex. Eames isn't wearing a condom. Which Arthur would have realized, were his brain in working order, which apparently it isn't.

Arthur freezes. He ought to pull away, but isn't this too late anyway?

It would help, would make up his mind for him if Eames pulled his hair or grabbed his shoulder or _something_. Instead, Eames makes a desperate noise and says, "You can get one if you want to, but I'm clean, I swear, _please_ ," and Arthur makes an executive decision and swallows him down.

Well, not _swallows_ so much as takes him halfway in, awkwardly, trying his best to keep his teeth away from the sensitive bits.

Eames has one hand over the side of Arthur's face, fingers tracing over the hinge of his jaw. "Arthur," he says softly, then nudges him away. Arthur watches as his cock spurts into the air, weirdly transfixed.

It's been less than a minute, all told. Arthur's jaw doesn't even hurt.

Because he's unable to let moments go unbroken, Arthur says, "So much for the whole night."

Eames snorts. "Did you think that was what I meant to do? Do I look like I'm bloody eighteen?"

"Not really." Arthur sprawls back, limbs everywhere on the bed, and if his ankle is touching Eames', well, why shouldn't it. "So what did you mean to do?"

"Don't be daft," Eames says, and drags Arthur closer, nosing at his neck until Arthur hisses at the over-stimulation. "Sensitive there?" Eames sounds pleased. "I'll remember that."

"That's assuming I'll let you do this again," Arthur says, but it's an empty boast, just for the sake of his pride.

"Assuming that, yes." Eames gets up.

To Arthur's annoyance, he has to actually stop himself from reaching for him. Instead he asks, "Where are you going?"

Eames yells back something muffled by the walls, and Arthur can't bring himself to repeat the question, so he drifts into sleep, a little.

He wakes up to the feeling of a warm wet towel on his stomach.

"What is this," Arthur mumbles, swiping his hand ineffectually at Eames.

"Turnabout," Eames says, and all right, fair enough.

Then Eames sinks in beside him, and an understanding dawns.

"Wait," Arthur says. "Did you actually pay two thousand dollars for a cuddling session?"

"You can't prove a thing," Eames says. He slumps on top of Arthur in a way that ought to be less comfortable than it is.

"Fuck off, I can't sleep with you on me," Arthur grumbles, but he closes his eyes and then suddenly it's morning.

The sun is shining through the window. Arthur kind of wants to shoot it.

He blinks awake and finds himself alone. Eames could have departed for parts unknown, but his travel bag is still open on the floor, leaking underwear and socks onto the carpet. Arthur doesn't bother rationalizing to himself why he chooses to go root inside it.

He's looking for a passport. He finds three. None of them are made out to anyone called Eames, neither as a first nor last name. One of them contains a printed boarding pass. Arthur inspects it.

Eames' flight to the Philippines, if indeed it is his, leaves at midnight.

Arthur looks around him, slotting things neatly into place in his mind. Eames appeared out of the Aether two months ago, took a liking to Arthur almost immediately, and has a suspicious amount of money for someone who looks like he does.

At the moment Arthur reserves judgment on the subject of what Eames may do for a living, but that's not the issue anyway. The important conclusion is that Eames may have had a better reason to be frivolous with his money than Arthur has so far suspected. Last night wasn't some exercise in bad financial practice.

It was goodbye.

Arthur's money is on the dresser (way to contribute to stereotypes, Eames). If Arthur's money is what this really is. There's a a small pile of notes that amounts to $2300, and beside it a small packet of hundred-euro notes tied together with a rubber band, something that looks suspiciously like a subway token, and a passport picture of Eames, several years old by the look of it.

Arthur takes his payment, and after a moment of hesitation grabs the photo, too. For blackmailing purposes, obviously.

~~

When Eames stops coming, Arthur's glad, at least, that it doesn't come as a shock. Eames is in Manila, or else he's anywhere else in the world. It doesn't actually matter.

Arthur would like to have the luxury of missing Eames' company. As it is, there's the greater worry of missing Eames as a source of income.

Two thousand dollars aren't peanuts, but they're not what you'd call a steady paycheck, either. Arthur keeps a small part of the sum for emergencies, divided and carefully hidden – under the mattress, in one of his socks, in the sugar jar in the kitchen that has never contained actual sugar since Arthur started living here.

The rest goes to the bank, but most of what's in the bank, sadly, goes to debt management. Arthur is getting a lot of mail about new credit cards and exorbitant loans. It's almost beautiful how much he's screwed, how dedicated the system is to screwing him further.

There are days when Arthur isn't certain whether there is any part of the USA's socio-financial system that he doesn't want to set on fire. Most days, he knows there isn't.

Other things Arthur secretly wants to set on fire include, but are not limited to, his crappy apartment; DreamState parlor; the university he studies at, because his GPA is 2.9 and he won't actually be able to find a good job like that; and his neighbor's laundry, hanging from the window across the street, just because it's hideous.

All in all, his present situation can be summarized as utterly craptastic.

There are ways of dealing with that, because there are ways to deal with anything. Arthur does so by sticking to a routine, by not letting himself think beyond the next day (or, on particularly trying days, the next hour), and by carefully budgeting in money for quality coffee, because it's a stupid dependency that Arthur can't afford but it keeps him from killing everything.

You can get used to everything. Arthur keeps telling himself that. It's no wonder that, eventually, giving head to near-strangers stops being stomach-churning and becomes just another chore.

Arthur is very carefully weighing his options. If he incorporates getting fucked into the services he offers, he can make money. Significantly more than he does now, especially if he doesn't do all of it through the parlor.

Eames is the only client Arthur ever took up on an offer like that, but he is far from being the only one who asked.

So when a client says, in a desperate voice, "Let me fuck you," well, Arthur had meant to consider, to think about it. Yet instead he says, "No," and throws the man out when he tries to argue.

It's almost a relief, actually, to know that he's not completely without boundaries anymore. Eames stepped all the way out to every single line Arthur had drawn and erased them, but it seems like Arthur drew them again, from the inside.

Or something like that.

When he leaves work, Arthur has a plan. He will do the math, and then he will budget himself an unthinkable amount of money to get well and truly drunk. Arthur does not like spending money on alcohol that can be spent on food, textbooks or coffee, but these are extreme circumstances.

The thing is, Arthur is an engineering major. He can do the math in his head. He can hope he's wrong, desperately hope so, but he knows he isn't. He ran the calculations through over and over while clients came apart under his hands and in his mouth, and there's no way out.

Still, it's not real until it's on paper, staring Arthur in the face.

If he chooses to let people fuck him, for the standing rate of two-hundred and fifty bucks a fuck, out of which he can reasonably expect a ten-percent tip on average, he stands to earn... enough. Combined with his current earnings, it'd mean that he could pay off his debt in the time it takes him to finish his degree. He would need to take additional loans to pay the actual tuition, but he'd pay those off after without too much difficulty on an engineer's salary.

All it takes is getting fucked, daily, by people he barely knows and doesn't want to know.

The thing is, the math doesn't stop there. Arthur's a virgin; there must be a monetary value on that. He doesn't want to let his standard clients know that, it will just make things harder, but there must be ways. There's Craigslist, if nothing else.

And then, if he does, why stop at the first time? If he's going to turn to a life of prostitution, he might as well be thorough about it. He'll need to set up some kind of screening system, obviously, keep out anyone dangerous, anyone who could try to blackmail him later. Possibly build some kind of client database, work from there.

Arthur blinks, and stares at what he's written in the past hour. He carefully balls up the paper, throws it in the trash, and goes to get wasted.

(He very carefully doesn't think, _why didn't I rip it, why didn't I burn it_ , because Arthur knows himself, and he doesn't like that the answer will be _I'll probably need it later_.)

After the third drink, a brilliant idea occurs to Arthur.

It seems wasteful to just let his first time be a casual business transaction. Making it a non-casual business transaction, Arthur can admit now that he's safely inebriated, makes his skin crawl.

Solution: Make it a non-business transaction. Thing.

More to the point, Arthur is sitting in a bar. Presumably, at least ten percent of the men here could be potentially interested in fucking him. It's just a question of finding out who. Arthur spots someone likely-looking, a blond guy in a rumpled shirt who reminds him of _absolutely no one._ He's trying to steel his courage when his phone rings.

It's Ariadne. "Where are you?" she asks without preamble.

Arthur rattles off the name of the bar. "Do you need me to come in?" DreamState keeps weird hours, and it wouldn't be the first time Arthur's been called in to see one of his regulars after his workday's technically over. It's extra income, so he doesn't mind.

"No," she says. "You had... a visitor, but he left."

Visitor. Ariadne wouldn't have called only to tell Arthur he just lost a potential tip. It has to be Eames. "Shit." Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, wishing he didn't want to know, but, "Do you know where he went?"

"He left a card," Ariadne says, dryly. "Or I should say, a matchbook. It's from a place downtown, The Mighty Coconut." Ariadne reads him the address.

Coconut. Right. Because it's Eames, it almost makes sense.

It's not too far away, just a short cab ride (more money Arthur shouldn't spend, shit, but he's too drunk to drive, and it's not like he can just walk around this part of town). Arthur recognizes the place by from its sign, two huge sad bowling balls badly disguised as coconuts hanging above the entrance.

Arthur's not actually too sure what to do next.

The alcohol, treacherous beast that it is, has chosen this moment to leave his mind and evaporate into a happy, distant cloud. Arthur's comforting drunken fog has dispersed, leaving him with the realization that he's essentially stalking a client.

Well, technically it's not stalking since Eames told him where he was going, but the point stands. He takes a deep breath, walks in, and nearly gets knocked off his feet by some asshole who can't look where he's going.

Said asshole is shoving Arthur, who is hastily reconsidering the perks of a bar brawl as opposed to getting drunk as a way to take him mind of his current living situation, when suddenly there's a hand on Arthur's collar, dragging him back.

"Now, there," Eames says. "Pretty face like yours, darling, it would be a shame if someone broke it, yeah?"

Of course, Eames _would_ turn a veiled threat into flirting. He turns to the other guy. "No offense meant, I'm sure," he says in a deceptively mild voice. "I suggest you both apologize like gentlemen and shake on it."

Arthur, dazed, shakes the other guy's hand. Then Eames all but drags him inside, seating him in a booth and sliding in to crowd him.

Eames' hand is on the back of Arthur's neck, not grabby but clearly with some intention of staying there for the duration. "Miss me, darling?"

"Mostly your money," Arthur says, leaning back into the seat and not at all into Eames' hand. "How was Manila?"

"Caloocan, actually," Eames says. "And since you ask, profitable."

"Mmm." It's not like Arthur to attempt a sultry look. Or, rather, not like sober Arthur. It is exactly like Arthur with three drinks inside him. "Think you'd like to spend a little on me?"

"Spend on you," Eames says, and it sounds incredibly filthy in his mouth. "Yes, I do believe I would like to do that very much."

This is where Arthur should be naming his price, but he spent the ten minutes before Ariadne's call looking for someone to fuck him, and, well, isn't this a golden opportunity?

"Buy me a drink, then," Arthur says. "And take me home and fuck me."

Eames chokes on his beer. Arthur may or may not have timed his sentence to achieve preciselt this effect.

"It's not my intention," Eames says once he's finished coughing, "to get you drunk and then take advantage of you."

"The drink's just a formality," Arthur says, slightly annoyed. "A social signifier to show this isn't a, a business transaction." And because drunkenness has much the same effect on his brain as sex, he adds, "If I'm too drunk to move, additionally, I can't run away."

Eames eyes narrow, and Arthur realizes Eames is far more sober than he seems. He's almost definitely more sober than Arthur. "In my line of work, that's generally not considered a good thing."

"What is your line of work, anyway?" It's as good a deflection as any.

"For me to know," Eames says, "and for you to stay far, far away from."

"Hey." Arthur is mildly offended. "What I do isn't exactly legal, either."

"Whereas what _I_ do," Eames says with a sigh, "is most definitely not. Do me a kindness, darling, ask me no questions."

"And you'll tell me no lies?"

Eames smiles at him, and Arthur falls in love a little with his crooked teeth, with his crooked life. "Better than that. I'll tell you nothing that can get you killed."

"Yeah, you probably shouldn't do that," Arthur says, more agreeable than he normally is, from the combined warmth of the alcohol inside him and Eames next to him. "Also," Arthur says, "if you buy me another drink, I could flop on you without feeling undignified."

"Flop on me," Eames says, unbearably amused. Arthur demonstrates, letting his muscles go slack, leaning back and to the left against Eames, who shamelessly raises a hand to pet Arthur's hair.

"Well, I do like that," Eames says softly. "I would also like to draw your attention to the fact that you're doing it right now, no additional booze required."

"You just want to get out of paying for my drink," Arthur mutters. He closes his eyes. Eames' hand feels good in his hair.

"Guilty as charged," Eames says. "Or is that the wrong word, since I'm trying to avoid charges at all cost."

There's a pun in there somewhere, but Arthur doesn't have the presence of mind to decipher it just now. Instead he says, "Fine, we can skip the drink."

Eames' hand tightens for a barest moment in Arthur's hair, pulling, not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to make Arthur's scalp tingle. "So I can take you home and fuck you," Eames says. Arthur's not sure if he's asking for confirmation, or just saying it to make Arthur breath speed up, but he nods anyway.

Eames tosses a bunch of notes on the table. "Come on, then."

They're walking fast, faster than Arthur would like. "Why are we running?" he asks Eames. "Think we need to get out before I change my mind?"

"No," Eames says. "Before the barkeep realizes I just paid my bill in pesos."

~~

There's a moment of uncertainty, right before they enter Arthur's apartment. They both hesitate; Arthur because he's still trying to convince himself this isn't a huge mistake, Eames (or so Arthur thinks) because Arthur's apartment doesn't actually look like something a human being would willingly live in.

After a moment, Arthur says, "Come on."

Because he has come to a decision, right there in the doorway, the first thing he does as soon as he locks the door behind him is pin Eames to the wall and _kiss_ him.

This takes Eames by surprise for all of ten seconds, after which he buries a hand in Arthur's hair and grabs his ass with the other. Arthur, to express his approval of this, bites Eames' lower lip.

By the time they part, Eames is already glassy-eyed. He blinks once at Arthur, then his shoulders slump. "I should warn you, darling. As much as I'd like to fulfill your request, I'm not certain I could actually survive the foreplay."

"Funny," Arthur says, stripping quickly. Since he can't be grabbing Eames, he may as well do something productive with his hands. "You don't _look_ like a quitter."

Eames' eyes narrow dangerously. "You don't say."

Then hands are grabbing Arthur about the waist and tumbling him into bed. Arthur rolls with it, using the momentum to trap Eames under him. He straddles his chest, grinning, his hair falling to tickle Eames' forehead.

Apparently Eames is suicidal, because the next thing he says is, "You should know that I have an almost uncontrollable urge to kiss your nose."

"Control it," Arthur advises him. "Because otherwise I'll have to kill you, and necrophilia isn't my thing."

Eames' hands tighten around Arthur's ass. "So what is your thing, then?"

Arthur grinds down, partly to distract Eames, mostly because it feels good. "I liked the licking bit," he says, thoughtfully.

"Which licking bit?" Eames is starting to squirm in a very distracting way. Also, he's far too dressed for the situation. Arthur's sense of propriety finds this offensive.

"All the licking bits," Arthur says. "Now take your shirt off before I kick your ass."

"Your wish," Eames says, lifting Arthur and moving him away with no apparent effort. He strips the shirt off, twists out of his pants. Arthur stares at Eames' boxers, obscenely tented. Also obscenely pink.

"Those are the ugliest underwear I've ever seen. Take them off before my eyes cease to function," Arthur says. Eames obliges him, lifting up and kicking them off once they're lowered enough.

Arthur runs his hands over Eames, over his broad shoulders and his chest and the muscles in his stomach, unconsciously licking his own lips. He realizes this when he catches Eames looking at his mouth, intent.

"Want to try the blowjob thing again?" Arthur doesn't much like it, but it seems hospitable to offer. "I think I'm getting better at it."

Eames grimaces. "If it's all the same to you, I would rather not think about that." And before Arthur can get embarrassed about that, Eames says, "I believe there was mention of licking."

Arthur's not sure what he expected, but it wasn't for Eames to go for his neck.

Instead of holding him down, this time Eames just lies over him, using the advantage of his weight to keep Arthur pressed against the mattress. This is a good thing, because it turns out Arthur has a tendency to thrash about when someone is licking _that spot_ , a third of the way up his neck, slightly off center.

He's making noises, too. He can't quite tell what they are because that would require a higher level of brain function than he's currently got available, but apparently they're alarming enough to make Eames ask, "Should I stop?"

"No," Arthur gasps. "Not unless I say – uh."

Eames stills for a moment, then laughs, loud. "This, darling, is why people don't pick the phrase 'safe word' as their safe word."

"Oh, fuck you," Arthur grumbles, and grinds his hips up for emphasis.

"How about this," Eames says. "If you want to stop say, er, aardvark."

Arthur freezes. "Okay, that's the least sexy word I have ever heard used in a sexual context, and that includes sixth grade abstinence ed."

"That is part of its point, Arthur," Eames says with more patience than Arthur feels is warranted by the situation.

"Less mocking. More licking. Now."

Eames doesn't say anything, just shivers slightly against him and obeys.

After a few more minutes of this, Arthur shoves him off. "Okay, seriously, enough," he says, and is grateful Eames just rolls off and looks at him curiously.

"You didn't say aardvark," Eames says, looking almost sad.

Arthur is feeling unusually charitable. "Yeah, maybe next time." He spreads his legs (not as wide as he can, so as not to alarm Eames) and thrusts up a little bit.

Eames' eyes go dark, and he curls his fingers around Arthur's shoulders, sliding his hands slowly down. Arthur's breath hitches when Eames thumbs his nipples, just once, rough enough to make them stand up.

At last, Eames' hands close around Arthur's thighs. Arthur doesn't look away, but neither does he say anything. He's feeling a curious sort of stubborn, the words catching just at the edge of his throat.

Eames presses a kiss to the inside of his thigh, slow with a hint of teeth. It makes Arthur suck in a breath. He won't ask Eames what he's doing. He doesn't want to be warned, he just wants Eames to do it already.

Of course, this means that Eames spends a small eternity licking parts of Arthur's lower body that Arthur has never been particularly aware of. The crease at the top of his thigh, the patch of skin just below Arthur's belly button, the back of his knee – Eames lifts his leg to get at it, manhandling Arthur without effort or any hint of self-consciousness – Eames gets acquainted with all of them, at length.

Arthur is close to giving up, to giving specific and easy-to-follow instructions, possibly combined with a death threat for potency, when Eames lifts both of Arthur's legs and licks into him with one smooth thrust of his tongue.

"Fuck," Arthur says, choking a little.

"That's the gist of it, yes," Eames says. Arthur disapproves of this, mainly because it requires Eames to remove his tongue from Arthur's ass.

At Arthur's growl, Eames goes back to what he was doing. Arthur spends a while not thinking, not doing anything except trying not to move about too much for fear of dislodging Eames.

Eames stops. Arthur opens his eyes. He doesn't remember having closed them.

Eames is looming over him, staring with an expression Arthur can't read.

"Yeah?" Eames says.

Arthur allows his eyes to slide shut again and says, "Do not stop unless aardvark."

Eames lets out a quiet laugh, warm breath against Arthur's cheek. "Duly noted."

It's a good thing Arthur specified this, he thinks, because the first few moments hurt. Worse, they hurt in a way Arthur isn't used to, intimate and frighteningly wrong. It doesn't feel, as the popular saying goes, like weakness leaving the body. He feels like he's getting damaged, injured, like he's being torn apart from the inside.

"Hurts," Arthur says, the smallest whisper. He didn't even mean to say it, but Eames hears him anyway.

"I could stop," Eames says, hushed. He doesn't, though, just slows down even more.

"No." Arthur's mouth is too dry to swallow. "Go on."

But Arthur cries out when Eames slides in another fraction of an inch - it can't be more than that yet it feels huge – and Eames grimaces and tries to pull out.

Arthur crosses his legs behind Eames' back. The movement makes him grit his teeth, but it's necessary. "I have to," he says, trying to be rational. "If I stop now I'll never go through with it, I'll be too – " He bites off the last part of that sentence. He doesn't want to hear that and neither does Eames.

Eames' eyes are huge, staring at him. Every muscle in Eames' body has tightened, rock-hard everywhere Arthur is touching him. "First timer?" Eames asks, quiet but not soft at all.

If Arthur has any dishonesty left in him, after the booze and the sex and the enormous relief that has filled him ever since he'd first laid eyes on Eames tonight, it doesn't stand up to the look Eames gives him.

He goes on the offensive. "What's it to you?"

"Didn't you think," Eames says, "that this might have been pertinent information?"

For the first time, the only time in all his months-long familiarity with Eames, Arthur is a little afraid of Eames. His mind feels scattered, pulled apart by pain and pleasure and uncertainty, and he finds himself saying, "I wasn't really thinking at all."

After saying that, Arthur feels every muscle in his body slackening, coming loose. It's as if he's punctured a hole in himself and all the air got out. He's been holding himself together for so tightly, for so long, that it's like he doesn't know how to do that halfway anymore. All or nothing, complete control, or – this.

Eames looks down at him, a long searching gaze, and Arthur doesn't know what he sees but his expression softens. He touches Arthur's cheek. "I suppose you weren't."

Arthur's entire body is limp, rag-doll-like, and he doesn't try to resist when Eames pulls back.

Except that, apparently, is the moment Arthur's body chooses to realize that it doesn't _completely_ hate this. As Eames moves, Arthur's back arches upwards, without Arthur's actual permission or volition. He arches and his hips snap and all of the sudden Eames is halfway inside him, and it's so good that Arthur can't _breathe_.

"You," Eames gasps, "are the most contrary bastard I have ever had the good fortune of meeting."

Arthur can't answer this, because he's too busy gasping "Please," and squirming closer to Eames. If he could, he would probably retort something like _takes one to know one_.

It still hurts, but it's as though the pain turned transparent and there's something shining through. Arthur doesn't know what it is, only that he wants it, that a little pain has never stopped him before.

His legs fall wide open. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back and pushes against Eames and - _yes_.

Eames' strong hands wrap around his hipbones, then, not grabbing him so much as steering him in the right direction. If Arthur had any presence of mind at all he would be overcome by this, the beauty of angles and trajectories turning into physical pleasure. As it is, he's just overcome by how it makes him feel, which is _glorious_.

He feels lit up, all the way through. He feels like he's burning alive, consuming and being consumed. He feels like he needs to come or he'll die, and he probably says something to this effect, because Eames' strong, beautiful hand is wrapping around his cock.

Arthur's hands, which up until this moment were clenching in the sheets, find their way to Eames' back, pressing them closer as Arthur all but breaks his spine trying to move, trying to get _more_ , and then finally he's coming and he can let go.

Except that he doesn't want to. He moves a hand to Eames' face, tracing the tight line of his jaw. Eames, in reply, lowers his mouth to Arthur's. He barely moves inside him, only the tiniest shifts that Arthur isn't sure are even voluntary. Eames can't even kiss him properly, he's just sort of mouthing Arthur's lips.

"Come on," Arthur says into his mouth, and Eames shudders and comes.

Arthur huffs a laugh at this, just a small tired thing. "Looks like that's going to be handy."

"You would think so," Eames says. He's talking into Arthur's shoulder, lips rubbing sensitive skin. Arthur moves Eames' head away as gently as he can considering that his fine motor control is completely gone.

He can't even formulate an answer before he falls asleep, and it's probably just as well.

~~

Arthur gets up in the morning with the stunning realization that he is in deep, deep shit. If that weren't enough, his head is pounding like it wants to fall apart.

Besides him, Eames groans something incoherent, and Arthur tenses up.

 _What the_ fuck _was I thinking?_ he wonders bleakly, but he knows. He was thinking that he was lonely, that his life has been really fucking _unpleasant_ this past month, and that he's in such a sorry state that the only thing he could find to make himself feel better was something he hadn't been willing to do for two thousand dollars before.

The question is, what to do now? Leave? It's not likely Eames is going to take any of Arthur's crappy things, but Arthur suspects he's not above snooping.

Arthur is frozen in his own bed, unable to decide; he's almost grateful when a man comes crashing through his window.

He's out of bed at the first sound of breaking glass. The guy standing before him wears all black and holds a gun in his hand, and – Arthur's eyes flick over him – he has at least one more weapon in a shoulder holster, almost definitely others too.

The guy aims his gun at Arthur. There's no time to think, so Arthur acts.

There's an alarm clock beside the bed; it mostly serves as a nightlight because Arthur doesn't know how to set it, a heavy and unimportant object. Arthur grabs it and smashes it against the intruder's head.

Eames sits up at about the same time the guy hits the floor. Arthur swallows, trying to catch his breath.

"Friend of yours?"

Eames blinks. "Formerly, yes."

Arthur raises his hand. "There's electric tape in the kitchen. Bring it here and I'll secure him."

Wordlessly, Eames pads away. He comes back bearing the tape (which he hands to Arthur), a broom, and a pan, which he uses to sweep up the glass shards from the floor.

Arthur finishes trussing up the attacker and lets him drop with a 'thump'. Eames hands him his slippers and Arthur sees he's already put on his own shoes. Since Eames is otherwise naked, this makes for an interesting sight.

"Shall we put him away?" Eames asks. Arthur nods, and together they carry him to the bathroom and lock the door.

"Right," Eames says, and drops to his knees. Arthur almost puts out a hand to stop him, but they're well outside the window's blast radius. Breathlessly, Eames says, "I hope you don't terribly mind, I feel the most urgent need to," and he presses his face into Arthur's crotch and inhales deeply, then takes Arthur's dick in his mouth.

The good thing about Arthur's apartment being to tiny is is that there's always a wall handy when you need one. Arthur leans against the nearest one, closing his eyes, thrusting into Eames' mouth. Belated adrenaline is floating through him, and Arthur grabs Eames' hair and pulls, not shy about making noise, not shy about anything, anymore.

Eames takes it. Eames, judging by the vibrations Arthur feels around his cock, the noises that don't make it out of Eames' throat, is _loving_ it.

It's fast and messy and undignified and Arthur gives a shout when he comes, because it's that fucking good.

Straight after, Eames doesn't let him go, keeping Arthur in his mouth while jerking his own cock furiously, his own finishing cry muffled. He licks his lips and looks Arthur in the eye.

"I have never seen," Arthur says, severely, "a human being look more smug. Ever."

"And with good reasons, which I shall now enumerate," Eames says, getting to his feet. "One, this is twice now I've convinced you to have sex with me recreationally. Two, you've just taken out someone who wants to kill me, therefore there's one less person at large making an attempt at my life. Three, you are magnificent beyond words and I am permitted to debauch you."

Against his better judgment, Arthur smiles. "I suppose that explains it. Want breakfast?"

"Hmm." Eames pretends to consider. "Is breakfast a euphemism?"

"I'm making eggs," Arthur says. "So no, it's not."

Eames sighs. "I don't know what's the bigger shame, that, or the fact that I would in truth prefer an actual breakfast over the euphemistic kind."

"Remember how you're not eighteen?" Arthur takes a step into the square foot that serves as his kitchenette, and digs through the drawer for a spatula.

"You're remarkably unflustered," Eames says. "Usually, when my conquests wake up to the threat of assassins, they don't take it nearly as calmly."

"Maybe it's because you do it too early in the relationship." Arthur frowns at the fridge. He remembers buying eggs the day before yesterday, where the hell did he put them? "I think assassination attempts before the third date are considered in bad taste."

"I'll have to take that into account." A step brings Eames directly behind Arthur. Arthur looks down at his hands where they're grabbing a pan. It's cast iron and heavy as fuck.

It's not that he wants to give Eames a concussion. Just, maybe, it's nice knowing he can if the need arises.

"What are you going to do about the guy?" Arthur rummages further. "Also, seriously, where are the fucking eggs?"

"I don't think I'm qualified to answer the latter, darling." When Arthur chances a glance over, Eames is rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Well, obviously I need to dispose of him."

"Don't shoot him," Arthur says, apprehensive. "Or if you do, not here and don't tell me. I don't want to be an accomplice."

"I'm not going to shoot him," Eames says, brow furrowed. "I'm frankly offended you'd assume that. No, I thought I'd call a friend and we'll dump the arsehole over at the police station. They should be glad enough to have him." Eames accompanies this with a meaningful look. This would be more helpful if he told Arthur the actual meaning.

"What?" Arthur says, when further clarification is not forthcoming.

"As much as I hate to ask this," Eames says, "would you be willing to be elsewhere for half an hour? My, ah, friend is a little shy."

Meaning, his _friend_ is probably either wanted or trying very hard not to be. "Fine," Arthur says. "I need to go buy more eggs, anyway."

Eames nods gratefully. "I'll have to get him where we can both grab him, mind – hold the door for me, will you?" he says as he opens the bathroom door.

Arthur does. With a grunt, Eames heaves the would-be-assassin's unconscious body over his shoulder and dumps him on the floor of Arthur's living room, which, due to the size of Arthur's apartment, means that the man's body covers his living room's floor in its entirety, and one of his legs is intruding into kitchen territory.

"Right." Eames leans against the wall. "Go on, then."

Arthur hesitates at the door. He's not going to ask Eames anything along the lines of _will you be here when I come back_ , since he's twenty-two and not fifteen.

Eames seems to sense this, and gives Arthur a small smile. "Go get eggs. I'm holding you to that breakfast."

Arthur gives him a small nod and departs in search of foodstuffs.

He's on the sidewalk, waiting for the light to change, when the memory of Eames' arms, flexing as he heaved the assassin's body, takes him over by ambush. Arthur is left blinking in the suddenly-too bright sunlight, breathing hard.

That the definition in Eames' arms, in his stomach, turns Arthur the fuck on--that's nothing new. What is new is the vibrant image that follows: Eames lifting Arthur, effortless, and fucking him against a wall.

 _What the hell_ , Arthur thinks, grabbing a telephone pole for support. _It's not as if I even enjoyed that._

Sadly, Arthur has an extremely good memory, which at the moment chooses to bring up the fact that, oh yes, he _did_.

 _Well, good,_ Arthur thinks, jabbing the "Cross" button more viciously than he really needs to. Maybe he's growing as a professional.

Except the thought of doing this at work, of offering the option and having it taken, makes Arthur's body lock in on itself so impossibly that he freezes, unable to walk, barely able to breathe. As if his muscles have all seized in a grand unified moment of _no_.

The light turns green. Arthur lets out a breath. One day at a time... one hour, when a day is too much. He might have to go down to minute-by-minute, but it doesn't matter.

Because Eames is leaving, if not now then soon. It's been a nice break, but Arthur's work day starts in two hours, and the last hurdle is cleared. He has to do this, now.

When he gets back, Arthur's living room floor is free of unconscious bodies, and Eames – of all the unlikely thing – has put on an apron and is making pancakes on Arthur's hot plate.

"The eggs were in the freezer," Eames says, by way of greeting. "Sit down, this will be ready in a jiffy."

Arthur does, trying not to wince. His kitchen chairs are kind of hard and now that the adrenaline rush has evaporated, he's feeling pretty sore in places best left unmentioned. Doesn't _that_ add to the loveliness of his professional prospects.

Of course, Eames – who couldn't manage to spot simple groceries not half an hour ago, and Arthur is beginning to have suspicions about that – notices. He looks at Arthur, and then very meaningfully turns back without saying anything.

Arthur doesn't really know much about Eames yet. But this meaningful silence thing, Arthur is pretty sure he thoroughly hates it. He means to interrogate Eames, or maybe just play along and not talk in some weird game of avoidance chicken, before he notices the sheet of paper lying on the desk.

Obviously de-crumpled paper, scribbled on in Arthur's handwriting, with some – are those corrections? – written in red ink.

Arthur grabs it, scans a line or two. "Eames, what the shit is that?"

Through the daze of his own anger, Arthur thinks that he'll need to remember this tone of voice. If he ever can't afford to pay his electricity bill and they cut him off, Arthur could use this voice to replace his freezer.

Or maybe not. He's pretty sure absolute zero temperatures actually spoil vegetables.

"You forgot to factor in some details," Eames says, flipping the pancakes over. His matter-of-fact tone doesn't fool Arthur at all. "I'll admit my numbers aren't as accurate, but you can get the general gist."

"Booze: $100 per week," Arthur reads in a flat voice.

"That's using the cheap stuff," Eames says, "and discounting letting people by you drinks. By the way, that doesn't always signify what you think."

"Opiates." Arthur doesn't even know why he's doing this. Eames knows what he's written very well. "$330 per week, not factoring in cost of labor. You misspelled 'factoring', by the way."

Eames flips the pancakes onto a plate and comes to the table, setting them in front of Arthur. "It's not that I'm judging your lifestyle choices, you see." Eames pushes a fork at him. "But if you go through with this, if yesterday's anything to judge by, you're going to be in a lot of pain for a long time. Nobody handles that well."

Arthur doesn't take the fork, because he's not sure if he can keep from stabbing Eames to death with it. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says, pushing the plate away a little because this conversation is really fucking bad for his appetite. "Besides, it only hurts at first."

"Is that what the internet told you?" Eames says. Arthur is pathetically grateful for the light mockery in his voice, because he can see the tiny hint of sadness in the set of Eames' hands. If he has to look that in the face, Arthur may well throw up. "It doesn't have to hurt at all." Eames' voice is quiet, almost kind. "But when you're so scared you have to get drunk and then dare yourself to do it, it's never going to _not_ be painful."

Arthur wants to say, _Fuck you, I wasn't scared_ , but he's been lying to himself all morning and he needs a fucking break. "So you've got a better idea?" he says instead.

Eames studies him, a long intent gaze that should make Arthur feel unsettled. It doesn't. "I wouldn't insult you," Eames says, "by offering to make you some kind of kept man. If you told me how you came into the situation, I might be able to come up with a solution."

Arthur snorts. "Yeah, not likely." But at Eames' expectant look, he says, "My mother got diagnosed with breast cancer two years ago. She lost her job because of the time she spent in treatments, and then she lost her insurance. I had a job in the university at the time, so I got her on my insurance, which ended up – " Arthur shrugs, because he doesn't even have words.

It's a horrible, depressing though, but Arthur finds a kind of bleak comfort in the realization that he's not curled up into a tight ball of despair yet, because... Well, because he's dead certain that nothing, literally nothing can be as bad as those six months were.

"It was a mess, anyway. I got fired, the insurance bailed on me. I couldn't afford a lawyer to begin with." Arthur smiles, mirthless. "And after that, well." He shakes himself a little. "She died a year ago, and I've been trying to do something about the goddamned hospital bills ever since. At first I thought her old insurance might cover it, I've been going through every channel I could, but it's hopeless."

After a short silence, Eames says, "I realize you may have heard some of this already, and I am by no means trying to discomfort or blame you, but I would say that you could sue your mother's employer for unlawful dismissal. I do realize the labor laws here are atrocious, but surely – "

"She was past retirement age," Arthur says, soft. "They'd been looking for a way to get rid of her, anyway."

Eames closes his eyes and leans back in the chair. "There are days," he says, "that I truly despise this country."

Arthur laughs. It can't be hysteria, not when he feels so fucking tired. "Tell me about it. I've had daydreams in the last month where I blow up every major public building in the city. Every fucking one of them."

Eames nods with sympathy, and suddenly Arthur can't bear it. "I could, you know," he says in the voice that makes people cringe away and look for hidden weapons. "I know how to make explosives."

But Eames leans forward and says, "Do you, now." He looks... fascinated is probably the best word. He rises, reaches into his shirt and pulls out a handgun. "Can you use one of these?"

Arthur feels a slow smile creeping over his face. He takes the gun, locks and loads, and moves over to his busted window. He aims across the street, pulls the trigger and hits the two pulley wheels holding the neighbor's laundry lines up. The whole setup crashes beautifully into the mud.

The echos die down, and Arthur blinks. He takes the magazine out, unloads the gun and hands it back to Eames. "I had no idea how much I needed that."

Eames' expression is one that is becoming rapidly familiar to Arthur. Eames rasps, "Well, I had no idea I could find you even more unspeakably attractive, but apparently I was wrong."

 _Live in the moment,_ Arthur thinks. "Well, if you still want to try to pretend that you're a teenager, you could try to fuck me against the wall." Arthur's pretty sure he wouldn't be able to come, not for a few hours yet, but that's not the point.

The point is that Arthur wants Eames against him, his warmth and strength, Eames getting off on him and panting in his ear, and maybe he wants that enough that little details like his own orgasm just don't compare.

Arthur is in even deeper shit than he's realized.

Eames pulls him into a kiss then, long and hot and sloppy. Arthur is starting to think that maybe he's up for another round after all when Eames pulls back.

"I think," Eames says, in the fake-light tone of voice that Arthur's beginning to hate, "that we are in need of prioritization. I suggest that we eat, then discuss life decisions, _then_ shag."

Arthur eyes him mistrustfully. "You want me to start believing that _you_ are the responsible adult in this relationship?"

"Oh, trust me, darling, I have made people believe far stranger things before breakfast. Speaking of which – " Eames makes an extravagant gesture and sits down.

Arthur joins him, because emotional crises or not, pancakes aren't likely to make anything _worse_.

~~

"So," Eames says as Arthur stabs into the last of his pancake. "What else can you do?"

Arthur chews, swallows, leans back and wonders when this conversation turned into a job interview. "Like what?" he says. He's not stalling, exactly; he just wants a direction.

Eames rubs his chin, thoughtful. "Got any hand-to-hand experience?"

"Some krav maga." A lot of krav maga, actually, but it doesn't do to brag. "Some Taekwondo. A bunch of other stuff."

"Such as?"

Arthur grins a bit, to himself. He has few tricks he could show Eames, bits and pieces that he learned from the men and women in his mother's employ, but nothing he can show Eames here without fear of breaking a wall or two. Or the ceiling. "Oh, this and that. MMA stuff, for the most part, a little acrobatics."

"How about knives?" Eames says, looking far too turned on for Arthur's comfort.

"I can handle one without cutting myself," Arthur says dryly. "But if we're talking violence, I'd rather go with a gun." He smiles a little in reminiscence. "My mom used to accuse me of wanting to be a cowboy. Then again, I know for a fact that she dreamed of being a freedom fighter, so I think she was just projecting."

Eames' expression has turned cautious, all of the sudden. "Arthur."

Arthur scrapes his fork across the plate just to make Eames wince. "What?"

"If your mother was a terrorist, you can tell me." Eames' expression is horribly earnest. "I won't judge."

Arthur scowls. "Fuck you, she wasn't a terrorist." He can't help a smile creeping up again. "She ran security for, like, four different embassies by the time I was fifteen." The smile can't really hold up through thinking of what happened next. "And then she went to work training people for corporate security. She meant to start working as an independent contractor, but that never really took off the ground, and," Arthur shrugs, "everything else I've told you already."

Eames is quiet for a moment. Arthur takes advantage of that to go wash the dishes. Only once Arthur closes the tap does Eames ask, "Do you have any other family?"

"What, so I can mooch off them?" Arthur dries his hands with a ratty towel. "No. I wouldn't have, anyway."

Eames raises an eyebrow. "You do realize that, having known you for more than fifteen minutes, I understand that you wouldn't have asked _anyone_ for help."

"What, not even my family?" Arthur tilts his head at Eames, leans back into the counter. He's trying hard not to smile.

"Especially not your family," Eames says, severely, and Arthur _does_ smile, because he likes how right Eames is about him. "At any rate, that's not why I was asking. I am correct in assuming that you're not in another relationship at the moment, yes?"

Arthur opens his mouth to say, _That would necessitate calling_ this _a relationship,_ then closes it when he realizes that he did, just this morning. It's too much trouble to start panicking about that now, so he says, "No. Do I look like a cheating piece of shit?"

"There is such a thing," Eames says, looking unbearably philosophical and adult, "as an open relationship."

"Not if I'm in it," Arthur says curtly.

"Duly noted." Eames stands up, closing in on Arthur. "Do you have, at the moment, any other commitments keeping you here?"

And that's the question, isn't it? Arthur's job he's obviously not going to lose any sleep about. He doesn't have any friends at school and Ariadne's been planning to leave to study in Paris anyway. His degree...

"I want to finish my degree," Arthur says, but even as he does, thoughts are whirling in his head, clicking into new places. "But nobody says I have to finish it here and now. If I have some better options, some way to make a decent living without it, it can wait."

He's looking at Eames, now, curious. "What did you have in mind?"

Eames takes one of Arthur's hands off the counter and presses it to his lips. "Darling." His breath gusts hot across Arthur's knuckles. "Would you run away with me to a life of crime?"

"Eames," Arthur says, and the smile that blooms threatens to crack his face apart, "I'm offended you even think that's a question." He grabs Eames' face, then, kissing him hard and whispering every _yes_ he has in him into Eames' beautiful, dangerous mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> This, together with "Running On" and "Long Time No See", is the actual fic that was posted for the kinkmeme prompt. I broke it up into three parts because the pacing changes noticeably - also, if anyone preferred to read it as an AU, they can just stop here and pretend the rest never happened.


End file.
